Media vita in morte sumus
by hobgoblin123
Summary: The story takes place shortly after our heroes' visit to Allesha Huyding. Faced with his impending demise, Gerald decides to force a decision considering his relationship to Vryce. In his own special way. Slightly AU. Slash, rated M for a reason. Managed to forget the most important stuff in my author's notes: HAPPY HALLOWEEN!


**Media vita in morte sumus**

Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit whatsoever is intended.

Credits: As for the title of my story, let me just quote Wikipedia: '_Media vita in morte sumus_ is the title and first line of a Latin antiphon' (a responsory by a choir or congregation), 'which translates as _In the midst of life we are in death_. It was erroneously attributed to Notker the Stammerer late in the Middle Ages, but was more probably written around 750 in France'. The stuff about 'all flesh is like grass' (also used it for my fic 'Into Darkness') is from the Bible, 1 Peter 1:24.

A/N 1: With regard to the fact that Gerald and Damien must have visited Senzei Reese's former fiancee sometime in the summer of the year 1249 (and not in autumn as in my story) and that Damien didn't meet her again in CoS, let alone visiting Zen's memorial if anything like it exists at all, this story is slightly AU.

A/N 2: Try as I might, I couldn't come up with a proper Halloween plot bunny, mainly because I wanted to write something with Gerald still being the Hunter. At times when the fae still reacted to human brain waves, it would have been extremely unwise to celebrate Halloween as we know it now, as far as I'm concerned. So I settled for the story playing on All Hallows Eve alright, but without the usual accoutrements like fancy dresses, children going from door to door and so on and so forth. Sorry if you've expected something more up to the occasion. Also sorry for recycling a few elements of other stories of mine (e.g. Gerald hiding under a tree, a drop of temperature heralding his presence and so on and so forth). The last ten days or so were sheer hell, and I'm quite glad that I was able to finish this fic at all...

A/N 3: A thousand thanks for your lovely reviews, Silvereyedbitch, Herdcat, Sartala and Carpatian Lady. Dear guests, it would be so nice if you could open up an account. I'd love to thank you personally and talk about eventual questions in private. And no, Carpatian Lady, you don't have to feel bad if you don't manage to review each and every chapter of 'And death shall...' ;-).

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_**Jaggonath, 31st October 1249 A.S**_.

Whispering the Prayer for the Dead, Damien gazed down on the grey not granite slab Allesha Huyding had ordered to honour the memory of her late fiancee. Of course Senzei Reese's mortal remains weren't here on Jaggonath Central Cemetery. They had been forced to hastily bury him like mangy nudog far away in the Rakhlands, with Hesseth, Ciani and himself as the sole funeral guests. Now Hesseth had been dead for roundabout a year, and Cee... she had left him for a few tribes of Rahk, and only the Lord in His wisdom knew if they were destined to meet ever again.

Very much to his amazement, the priest realized that the thought had lost its sting over the last months. So much had happened after they had separated. At the beginning of their relationship, he had believed that he could have fallen in love with the loremaster, but now he wasn't so sure anymore. Maybe he hadn't been so much intrigued by the woman Ciani Sa Faraday as a person but by her adeptitude. Considering that he had always been attracted to things faewise, the idea didn't seem that far fetched, after all.

Scratching his itching beard stubble, Vryce refocused his attention on his surroundings. Having belonged to the pagan multitudes, Zen's memorial wasn't located in the area of the cemetery where his own fellow believers had found their last resting place. None of the tombstones bore an engraving of the two golden interlinking circles of his faith, and no numarble statues with their arms spread in a gesture of blessing were watching over the eternal slumber of the dead. In lieu thereof, in preparation for the forthcoming solemn festivities the graves were already showing food offerings and even more weird outgrowths of the numerous pagan cults at home on the eastern continent. On Earth, a large part of the colonists' forefathers would have celebrated All Hallows Day tomorrow, followed by All Souls, a commemoration day for the deceased. Due to the fae reacting to human imagination, the church had been forced to abandon the belief in saints, angels and the Messiah in one single sweep. But the pagans apparently didn't care if adhering to customs much more ancient than what had been the five major world religions on their mother planet spawned an entire army of new demonlings. Soul cakes and an abundance of candles were warring with figurines of strange deities and even grinning skeletons, a grisly reminder that all flesh was like grass and death was indeed an inevitable part of life.

Maybe even of a certain unlife which had been lasting for nigh to a thousand years by now. Vryce stifled a vicious curse utterly unbefitting the place and occasion. When he had first learned about the true identity of the Hunter, he would have danced for joy if the man who had been the Prophet of the Law in an era long gone from living memory would have been killed for good. Vulking hell, he would have gladly volunteered to rid Erna of his taint himself. Had even sworn into Tarrant's comely face that he would kill him as soon as Ciani's memories were restored to her. But times had changed. Or more precise as the nit-picking know-it-all waiting for him in their rented room would have doubtlessly preferred, both of them had changed over the two years of travelling all over the planet in each other's company. Just as the adept had foretold at the beginning of their acquaintance, he had been gradually corrupted by the malevolent entity at his side until the previously clearly defined line between good and evil had blurred and he couldn't tell right from wrong any longer.

"For you, I've become the most subtle creature of all: a civilized evil, genteel and seductive. An evil you endure because you need its service - even though that very endurance plucks loose the underpinnings of your morality" (BSR, pages 378/9), Tarrant had said on the gentle rise overlooking the Rakh camp. So very calm, so utterly sure of himself. Even after all this time, Damien remembered every word as if the Lord of the Forest had engraved them right into his heart and soul with his silken voice.

As matters stood, it seemed that Gerald had made a good job of fulfilling his prediction down to the very last detail. There was no denying that he was evil incarnate, a ruthless serial killer no less sadistic than the Iezu intent on enslaving mankind. But at times when he wasn't unleashing the darker impulses of his demonic nature, nobody in his or her sane mind could deny him being civilized and genteel, let alone seductive. Carrying himself with an easy grace, he possessed an undeniable grandeur, an innate regalness which made him stand out like a beacon in the darkness among lesser men. Very much to Vryce's dismay, he himself turned out to be the living proof lately that the Hunter's abundant charisma wasn't just working on women, a rather disturbing development, as far as he was concerned.

Damien heaved a sigh from the bottom of his soul. It was high time to face the bitter truth instead of sticking his head in the sand. Until the adept's abduction by his miffed contractual partners, he had fooled himself into thinking that Gerald was just a coerced ally. A brother-in-arms. Maybe, just maybe, a treasured comrade in spite of their vast differences. Even when he had decided to succour him from the hands of forces cruel and merciless beyond mortal reckoning, he had somehow managed to pretend that it was solely for the common good although his panic should have given him some food for thought. He needed Tarrant for battling their arch enemy Calesta. Period.

Witnessing the Neocount's suffering in the ghastly realms of the Unnamed, though, his face so contorted in agony that it was barely recognizable while those abominable snake creatures were worming in and out of his ravaged flesh, his entire perception had changed in the blink of an eye. For the first time ever, he had realized that this wasn't just about saving humankind from a power crazed demon any longer. Not even about redeeming the man who was technically still the superior of his order. And afterwards, when he had seen Gerald lying on the couch in the storage cellar of Karril's temple, all the more fragile for the plush, heavily embroidered velvet robes the God of Pleasure had clad him in, his heart had ached for him, and he had wished nothing more than laying down at his side and kissing the ugly scar marring his otherwise perfect features. Let alone proceeding to even more intimate caresses he had never fancied lavishing on a man before.

But shell-shocked by the insight that he had somehow fallen for the Hunter, he had behaved like a veritable asshole after the adept had finally come to his senses again. Focussing on the horrible memory of the thousands of women inhabiting Tarrant's private hell, he had dredged up anger, even loathing, had snapped that he didn't care whether or not his companion would make it past the last day of his reprieve. Nothing could have been further from the truth. But this hadn't been the worst of his blunders. For a fleeting moment, Gerald's aloof facade had cracked and allowed him a glimpse at the anguish of mind dwelling beneath it. "Would you wipe clean a slate of nine hundred years, for one single month of good intentions" (CoS, p. 247), he had asked, his usually so smooth light tenor hoarse and strained.

This should have been his opening, his in all probability last chance to make it through to the human soul trapped in an existence so monstrous that it defied description. After all, he wasn't just a warrior knight but a priest who was damn well responsible for the salvation of those entrusted to his care. Whether he liked it or not, this doubtlessly included the undead founder father of his faith, as weird as the idea might seem. But he had botched it once again. Instead of carrying out his duty, he had fobbed Tarrant off with a harsh retort that couldn't have been altogether reassuring for a man fearing eternal damnation. And yet the adept had had the greatness to thank him for rescuing him from the fate he dreaded more than anything else.

Shivering in the chill autumnal wind, Damien pulled his coat tighter around his bulky frame. After leaving the Hunter to browsing Zen's notes for valuable information, he had aimlessly wandered through the streets of Jaggonath until his feet had once again carried him to Mes Huyding's house seemingly on their own account. Only God knew what he had intended to achieve with paying her a second visit. But talking to her in the absence of her irritable new boyfriend, he had been somewhat surprised to learn that she had payed for a memorial for the man she had loved once. Her directions had left nothing to be desired, and here he was, his mind much too occupied with a certain complication in his life called Gerald Tarrant to properly focus on the memory on a passed away friend. There wasn't much he could do for Senzei Reese now, anyway, other than praying for his immortal soul and wishing him well in whatever afterlife he had gone to.

A light drizzle was starting to fall, and a fierce gust of wind caused the warrior knight's coat tails to flap against his legs. At roundabout half past five, the sun had already sunk beneath the horizon, and before long he wouldn't be able to see his hand in front of his eyes. It was high time to make tracks and return to the adept's side. Having enough problems on his own already, encountering a horde of demonlings on the hunt for human sustenance was something he could do very well without for a change.

Vryce's stomach growled like a starving beast itself, but he payed no attention to it. Under different circumstances, he would have considered stopping for a bite to eat at one of the numerous taverns of Jaggonath, maybe accompanied by a mouthful of ale to wash it down. Temperance was a virtue alright, but thankfully his religious authorities had no objection against a decent glass of liquid bread every now and then. Not that this venial sin would have really mattered on his ever lengthening list of transgressions against everything his faith was standing for. But his heart heavy and his mind reeling, the mere thought of mingling with people was enough to make his toenails curl.

After a last farewell glance, Damien pivoted on his heels and headed for the main path which would bring him to the graveyard wall, but he hadn't come very far when the temperature seemed to drop by another ten degrees at the very least. As much as he wished otherwise, the sudden freezing cold couldn't have a natural cause. Warily, he eyed his surroundings, his right hand creeping towards the flame-patterned hilt of his sword. But no scaly abomination jumped at him with outstretched claws, and no vampire or succubus approached him with an inviting smile, dead set on draining him of his last drops of blood or pleasure. Other than for the low drip-drip of rain the night had become eerily quiet. Too quiet for his peace of mind. Even the unearthly moaning of the wind in the trees had suddenly died down as if by command. To make matters worse, he could feel eyes resting on him now, cold but hungry eyes which were following his every move very much in the manner of a predator prowling around its unsuspecting prey.

Taking several deep breaths, the warrior knight concentrated on the mental patterns which would allow him to Work his Sight. It took him more effort than usual, but when he finally succeeded, an entirely different world opened up before him. The Earth fae was everywhere, being at the beck and call for anybody who knew how to harness its powers. But right under the lowest branches of a towering nuchestnut tree no more than ten feet away a tangle of delicate purple strands was throbbing with an eerie life of its own. Dark fae, so fragile that even the rays of the moons could weaken it but powerful enough in the absence of light to stall death itself. A tendril of it reached out, coiled around a shadowy shape which seemed to be woven of the heart of midnight itself like an unclean serpent, and suddenly Vryce knew who was stalking him under the cover of darkness "Gerald? Stop lurking around and show yourself," he blurted out with rising exasperation. "I've had it up to here with you playing hide and seek."

At the very next moment, the Hunter stood in the centre of the path as if he had dropped right from the sky. Scrutinizing him, Damien felt his blood run cold with dread. Whatever Tarrant had found in Senzei's notes certainly hadn't helped to improve his mood. No muscle moved in his deathly pale face, and the pitch-black eyes dominating it, glittering like not diamonds unearthed in the abysses of Hades, were a measureless emptiness. There was something about him that remembered the priest of the mythical winter king, a creature wrought of sheer ice that could turn blossoming landscapes into barren, snow-covered wastelands where nothing but hunger and despair would ever grow again with a single touch of his hand, and he shuddered at the thought.

"Are you... alright? You don't look well at all," he stammered, well aware in a small corner of his mind that he was talking utter nonsense. Of course Tarrant wasn't alright. How could a man who knew that he was bound to crumble into dust or whatever equally dreadful would happen to him as soon as the Unnamed dissolved the compact sustaining his unnatural unlife could ever be? But in stark contrast to his demeanour in Karril's storage cellar, he didn't give the impression of someone close to despairing. Quite the contrary. His delicate features bereft of any human expression whatsoever, Gerald appeared as if he were preparing for a slaughter of the particularly grisly kind.

Without deigning to grace him with a reply to his futile question, the Prince of Jahanna floated towards him as if his feet weren't touching the gravel at all, the motion so utterly alien to the mortal plane that Damien felt a cold shiver running down his spine which didn't have anything to do with the cold. Dazedly, he registered that the rain didn't seem to have any effect on Tarrant whatsoever. The flowing midnight blue silk robes in pure Revivalist style were completely dry, and his light brown hair was Worked into a mass of shiny waves which were framing his delicate features like a halo. Aside from the eyes betraying his true nature, he could have been one of God's messengers their forefathers from Earth had believed in. But no angel but the one who had led the rebellion against his master could have ever radiated the almost palpable aura of unbridled menace which threatened to freeze the warrior knight's marrow in his bones. His hands balled into fists, he backed off a few steps without even realizing that he was moving, but it did him no good. _Run for me, Vryce,_ a low, composed voice suddenly whispered inside his head, and he was lost.

Till his last breath Damien wouldn't be able to remember for how long he had been sprinting back and forth across the cemetery like a lunatic. All sense of time extinguished, it could have been ten minutes or a thousand years. Wet twigs whipped his face and tore at his clothes, hot candle wax burned the skin of his face and hands when he had tripped over an invisible obstacle once again, and leering, misshapen figurines were crunched under the soles of his boots in the dozen. But almost driven to distraction by the horrible nightmare scenarios welling up from the darkest corners of his soul, he couldn't have cared less. All that mattered was that he managed to save the man he had come to cherish far beyond anything he had thought possible in his wildest dreams from certain doom.

But it was no use. Again and again he was forced to witness Tarrant's death, had to stand helplessly by as the adept burst into flames in the first rays of the rising dawn or attempted to Work during a quake, screaming his head off as powers neither mortal nor immortal could tame were frying his brain to a crisp. And ever and always hell was waiting for him with open arms. There was no mercy for a creature who had committed untold atrocities for centuries without feeling a shred of it, no forgiveness for the cold-blooded murderer of his own kin. Redemption was as unreachable for the Neocount of Merentha as the icy depths of space denied to them since Ian Casca had blown up the spaceship which had carried their ancestors to their new home.

That was the worst of it. If getting a pardon from the ultimate punishment required sacrificing an existence spanning nigh to a thousand years for the sake of humankind of Gerald, he would grieve for him as he had never grieved before. Knowing him safely in God's hands, though, his soul in a blessed place where no harm could touch it any longer, he would doubtlessly come to terms with his demise after a while and find a modicum of peace of mind again. But learning that the adept would be damned to eternal torture in purgatory no matter what, this was more than he could bear.

Crying like a small child, Damien skipped an evergreen bush just to bump right into a tall, familiar frame which didn't budge an inch as his still considerable weight crashed into it with a vengeance. The impact jolted him out of his eerie stupor, at least insofar as he was aware of the identity of the man to whom he was clinging like a lifeline to sanity without giving a damn if he left smudges or creases on the previously immaculately clean robes. "Praise the Lord! You aren't in hell," he sobbed out, still terrified half out of his wits by the horrendous images which had just been forced upon him very much against his will.

"Just so. Thanks to you, Vryce. But notwithstanding my gratefulness, I find your reaction to the visions I've planted in your mind rather... disturbing."

Momentarily struck speechless, the warrior knight let go of his vis-à-vis as if he had burned himself and let his gaze wander around. Right on his left hand side, its branches swaying in the freshening wind, was the old nuchestnut tree the Hunter had been hiding under what seemed like an eternity ago. Slowly but surely, the truth began to dawn on him. He couldn't even begin to fathom for which sinister purpose Tarrant had done it. Unravelling the mysteries of this ingenious but twisted brain was forever beyond him. But fact was that the adept had hunted him like the thousands of innocent women who had breathed their last under his hands, had brought his worst fears to life for him until he had almost gone insane with terror. And all the while, while his besotted self had cried his eyes out over Gerald's supposed death and subsequent damnation, the vulking bastard had patiently waited for him to stumble into his waiting arms. Damn you, Merentha!

Violating each and every principle of his faith, Damien had tolerated a lot of things he abhorred while travelling with a being called the Darkest Prince of Hell with good reason. Betrayal, murder, the slow corruption of his soul, just to mention a few of it. Even when his ally had attempted to squeeze information out of poor Jenseny by means of mental torture, he had held back for the sake of their mission, had just attacked the blood-curdling visions Tarrant had conjured up instead of the man himself. But enough was enough. Red hot anger replacing the last remnants of his sorrow, he twisted his fingers into the adept's collar and pulled him closer until they were almost standing nose to nose. "Of course it was you. I should have known all along," he blustered, accompanying each word with a vigorous shaking that sent his nemesis' long strands of hair flying around his head. "What the heck have I done to deserve this? Or have you just run out of women you can torture and kill for your pleasure, Hunter? Oh God, I hate you, you miserable son of a..."

A long, pale index finger on his lips silenced his furious tirade. "Shush, Vryce. Since I've no hope that you'll let the matter rest, we can talk about my motivations later. But for now, kindly keep your mouth shut for a change. I'm not finished with you yet."

_'I'm not finished with you yet_'? This didn't bode well, didn't bode well at all. Before Damien could get his bearings again, he suddenly found himself being pushed against the damned nuchestnut without having a clue how he had actually crossed the distance. Gerald was so very close now, his dark, fathomless eyes fixed on his face with an expression unsettlingly akin to the satisfaction of a starving beast which had finally caught its elusive prey. At the very next moment, Tarrant bent down to him, and his lips parted with a low, wistful sigh. Whatever the warrior knight had expected hadn't prepared him for the feel of an ice cold mouth on his skin, for the no less chill tongue lapping at the mixture of tears, sweat and rain on his cheeks as if it were the most delicious wine. Appalled and aroused in equal parts, he set about wrestling himself free from the grip of the deceptively slender fingers trapping his wrists in a vise-like grasp, but he could as well have tried to move a mountain.

A long leg came up, hooked around his thighs and the tree trunk alike and pressed him even harder against the rough bark. The adept's narrow hips grinding into his own, he realized that the man couldn't possibly wear much under his robes. And that finally having a certain priest at his complete and utter mercy seemed to be a mighty turn on for him.

Damien started to tremble as his treacherous body responded to the touch setting his nerve-ends on fire with frightening intensity in spite of his wrath. Running purely on instinct, he pushed his pelvis forwards in order to intensify the sensation, but froze to the metaphorical pillar of salt when the Hunter's tongue travelled leisurely all the way down his throat until it came to rest just at the spot where his pulse was hammering visibly just beneath a thin layer of skin. For a drawn out moment, the world seemed to stand still. But then the tips of canines so much sharper than a human's had any right to be dented his epidermis without actually piercing it yet, and he realized that death had very likely finally caught up with him.

Horrified, the warrior knight redoubled his desperate attempts to free himself, but it was to no avail. "Cut the crap," he choked out between gritted teeth. "I don't know why you're so keen on killing me all at once. Thought that dragging your sorry butt back from hell would count for something on your tally. Evidently, I was wrong. But you'd better remember that we have a mission before doing something that you might regret later. Calesta, Gerald. We have to stop him from enslaving mankind. Doesn't it matter to you anymore?"

Ever so slowly, the man who had once been the Prophet of the Law raised his head and looked him square in the face, his black gaze searing Damien's soul like the droplets of molten lava had gouged his flesh in his companion's private hell. "Kill you? That's not quite what I have in mind. You should really keep your vivid imagination in check, Vryce. It's better for your blood pressure." Tarrant flashed him a wicked smile. "But I don't deny that adhering to the old ways as I was wont to in the first decades after my transformation is a rather tempting idea for the time being," he went on matter-of-factly as if he were talking about the weather forecast. "Drinking straight from your jugular vein wouldn't necessarily be the end of you. I could leave just enough blood inside you that you wouldn't die or become permanently incapacitated. You might even enjoy it. It's entirely up to me whether my victims feel pleasure or mortal agony while sating my appetite."

"How gracious of you! And what do you expect of me now, you crazy bastard? Awarding you a medal for your clemency? That'll be the day!"

"You're jumping to conclusions once again. A bad habit that could very well be your undoing in the near future," the adept retorted chidingly. "This isn't about clemency or any other foolish human sentiment. As a priest, you should know that there are worse things than mere physical pain. Take it from me that pleasure being inflicted on you against your will can hurt a lot more than glowing pincers. The act ravages your soul instead of your body. I know this very well. So did those of my pets who rather committed suicide than living with the memories of what they perceived as their guilt. But this shouldn't concern us now, should it? Tonight, I won't take more from you than you'll give willingly."

Under different circumstances, Damien would have dwelt upon Tarrant's veiled confession that he had been a victim of violation in his mortal days a little bit longer. Considering what his ally had said about the murdering of his siblings shortly after they had rescued him from roasting on glowing iron bars like a suckling nupig, he suspected that they had played a disreputable role in it. But a surge of moral revulsion as fresh as on the day he had first learned about the true identity of the Hunter stifled his curiosity, let alone the pity he might have felt otherwise. "Your 'pets', is it? Merciful God in heaven, have you ever listened to yourself? You make me sick. If you're after my compliance, there's no chance in hell that you'll get anything from me other than my sword through your black heart," he fumed.

Utterly unfazed by the overt threat, the Neocount of Merentha raised an eyebrow in sardonic amusement. "That remains to be seen, Vryce. With regard to your reaction to my advances, I deem it very likely that you won't be altogether averse to my proposition."

"And what do you want from me, if I may ask?"

"Why, I thought it would be obvious." Tarrant chuckled. " For a man of your intelligence, you're rather slow on the uptake sometimes. But never mind. Your lack of comprehension can be easily remedied."

Damien very nearly choked on his breath when the adept's right hand let go of his wrist and strayed towards his crotch. Nimble fingers unbuttoned his flies in the blink of an eye, pulled down his trousers and briefs in one go and closed around his still semi-hard cock with the sureness of a sleep-walker. The touch of the undead flesh on his burning skin evoked memories of the glaciated peaks of the Dividers, but managed to kindle a blazing fire in his loins with a single caress, nonetheless. For a few seconds, he came close to surrendering to the sensation and to hell with the consequences. But then a thought crossed his mind, and he tried to pry off the unyielding digits around him without paying any attention to his protesting private parts. "Gerald, no," he said softly. "God is my witness that you manage to raise my hackles like no other. But you're right, as usual. I would give this willingly. More than willingly, actually. But on board of the Golden Glory you told me that any acts of procreation are strictly forbidden to you under penalty of death. You mustn't risk your life for this. The stakes are too high."

The Neocount shrugged. "But the compact is broken, Vryce. You yourself pointed out that I'm a free agent for the first time in more than nine hundred years. And now, I verily intend to take advantage of it."

Before Damien could object again, Tarrant started to jerk him off in earnest, finding exactly the rhythm that turned him on like no other. It was heaven on Erna, but he wanted more. A lot more. Moaning, he cupped the adept's firm buttocks, pulled him as close as humanly possible as if he intended to merge with him. Which was kind of the plan. "Gerald, I want... I need...," he gasped out, feeling uncomfortably like a teenager instead of a battle-hardened warrior pushing his forties.

"To lay with me?" The Hunter shot him a speculative glance from under his long, golden-brown lashes. "That's one of the better ideas you've had so far. Feel free to help yourself."

Trembling in every limb, Vryce twisted his fingers into the bothersome robe separating him from the object of his desire and pushed it upwards, relishing in the feel of soft silk gliding over even softer skin until Tarrant was bared to his hungry gaze. Realizing that his calculations had been correct and his brother-in-arms hadn't indeed bothered with any kind of underwear whatsoever, his mouth went dry with longing. But there was still the matter of a regrettable lack of experience on his part. "Of course I'm in on the basics, but I've never done this with a man before," he muttered with no small amount of embarrassment. "Surely, we'll need a decent oil and a certain amount of prep..."

Gerald cut him off with a snort eerily reminiscent of an annoyed uncat, but the warrior knight thought he could see the corners of his mouth twitch slightly. A determined hand let go of his erection, guided his own where it had never gone before, and then he was slowly slipping inside the tight channel without encountering any resistance whatsoever. "Just curl your finger and let me do the rest for a start," the Hunter purred into his ear, and he was only too happy to comply.

At first, Tarrant hardly moved, tentatively twisting his hips as if he were searching for something but couldn't quite remember what or where. But all at once, a shudder passed through his lean frame, and his mouth formed a surprised 'oh'. Damien grinned. Apparently, his lover-to-be had found what he had been looking for, an assumption confirmed when the adept began to rock against him in a slow but steady rhythm. "I had almost forgotten how good this feels," he breathed, his brow furrowed in concentration. "You can add your index finger now. It won't hurt me."

With regard to the throaty moan rewarding his compliance and the unyielding hardness digging into his abdomen, it most certainly didn't. His own throbbing erection screamed for attention with rising insistence by now, but he watched in utter fascination as Gerald's eyes slipped shut and he tilted back his head in rapture. _Now, Vryce._ _I'm ready. _No sooner had the silent message reached his brain cells than slender arms encircled his waist and the world became a blur.

When Damien came halfway to his senses again, he found himself flat on his back on a huge, white horizontal marble slab, the Hunter mantling over him like the deadly but so very majestic bird of prey he preferred for his shape-shifts. Being quite ill at ease with respect to the peculiar nature of their bed of love, he couldn't help but wondering what the human being whose body was crumbling into dust just a few feet below them might have thought about two horny bastards indulging in a lustful romp on his or hers last resting place. _There's no denying that we're in death in midst of life._ _But_ i_t appears that there's also life to be found in midst of death. Or whatever counts for life in my state_, a dry voice travelled across the mind link, and he very nearly broke out into a fit of hysterical laughter. But his uncalled-for bout of mirth evaporated into thin air as the adept lowered himself onto him and impaled himself on his waiting erection without further ado.

For whichever reason unbeknownst to him, all his senses sharpened, became so much keener than a mere mortal's could have ever been without the aid of a Working. The rain had stopped by now, but he could hear the drops running down from the bushes and trees, hitting the soft soil with a low thud, could feel every single letter of the inscription on the tombstone pressing into his back and see the sharp angles of Tarrant's high cheekbones and the gentle curve of his mouth as if it were broad daylight and not a starless night.

But everything paled when Gerald started to thrust, at the beginning in smooth, undulating motions which sent shivers of arousal through his groin, but then faster and faster until he thought he would die of sheer bliss. The channel opened wide, allowed him access to his lover's mind, but very much to his surprise the most brilliant brain he had ever encountered seemed to have temporarily shut down its higher functions in the throes of passion. Everything that remained was the the sensation of being filled to the brim, the sweet agony rising to a higher level with each brush of Vryce's penis against the gland at the front of his rectum and a sense of desperate want being reflected in short, ragged thought fragments. _Yes. There. Oh God, please, more. Harder, Vryce..._

Sharing his sexual partner's pleasure on top of his own was more that the priest could bear, and he bit down on his lower lip in a doomed attempt to delay his ejaculation. "Oh God, Gerald, you're getting me too damn close," he groaned. "I'm going to come if you don't take it a bit slower."

But Tarrant was far beyond listening. Teetering on the brink of his first orgasm in nigh to a thousand years, he was riding him as hard and fast as he could now, each of his frantic movements accompanied by a lustful whimper which went straight to Damien's loins. An ungodly red glow was brightening eyes as fathomless as the night sky now, and when the adept opened his mouth for a deep-throated growl bearing no resemblance whatsoever to a sound human vocal chords could produce, Vryce spotted a glimmer of pointed, razor-sharp fangs. It was a frightening sight to behold. Or would have been if he had still been able to think straight. But with Gerald's muscles contracting rhythmically around him and triggering his own climax, he couldn't have cared less.

Afterwards, when they were laying in each other's arms, finally exchanging the sweet, languid kisses slaking the need of their bodies had left no time for, he suddenly broke out into a fit of giggles. "Mind telling me what's so funny?" the adept asked with a puzzled frown.

"You cunning bastard had this all neatly planned, hadn't you? Luring me here in this shitty weather, giving me the heebie-jeebies by means of those nasty visions of your death in order to file my reaction to them in the well-stocked archive you call your brain, annoying the heck out of me with your callousness. Just everything. Vulking hell, you even came here dressed for the kill, no pun intended. I just wonder why you bothered doing it. You could have had what you wanted in a warm bed instead of having it off with me on a gravestone of all things. Another item added to the already long list of our sins."

The Hunter's pale grey eyes were so very human now and utterly devoid of any malice. "As you've already pointed out yourself, the stakes are high," he whispered. "Mer Reese's notes were sufficient for my purpose. My decision is final and irrevocable, but I'd rather not elaborate on the topic. Not now. Let's just say that I needed to know about the true extent of your feelings for me. About your... devotion."

"That bad?"

"It depends on the point of view. On a personal note, yes. And this leads us to my second reason for pressing for a decision tonight, one way or the other."

Tarrant turned away from him and stared fixedly into the distance, a muscle in his delicate jawline twitching ever so slightly. Registering his discomfort, the warrior knight shifted his bulk until they were face to face again. "Tell me," he said gently. "It can't be worse than some of the other stuff I've heard lately."

"There isn't much to tell. Just that I wanted this so badly before..."

Damien waited for the rest of the sentence with unwonted patience, but when it didn't come, he finished it himself. "Before you die."

The adept just nodded, his eyes in a faraway place, and Vryce's heart went out to him. "Listen, Gerald," he forced out through his constricted throat. "I've said a lot of things to you I'm not altogether proud of. Pretended that I wouldn't wipe clean your vulking slate if I were God. That's a ton of bullshit. You could have my forgiveness on a silver platter. I hope that you can bring yourself to forgive _me_ for failing you in your hour of need. It won't happen again. And whatever fate might have in store for us, I solemnly swear that the Unnamed won't get you, even if I have to battle him all on my own. Have I made myself clear?"

Tarrant swallowed convulsively. "Very clear. Thank you... Damien."

"Don't thank me until we've sent the bastard Calesta to hell and have steered you into safe waters," the warrior knight muttered with feigned gruffness. "But before we call it a night, I've got a question. Don't get me wrong. Whatever you reply, I won't renege on my promise. But I'd like to know why you picked me of all people for your first tryst after a millennium of celibacy. Why not one of the black-haired, slender beauties you're so fond of chasing through your forest? Was laying with me just a means to an end, a way to ensure my loyalty? Were I merely a handy tool for satisfying your long suppressed sexual needs? Or was it a matter of... of personal affection? What am I to you, Gerald Tarrant, Neocount of Merentha?"

"That's more than one question, Vryce. And if you're looking for some easy answers to them, I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you."

"Oh, are we already back to 'Vryce'? I thought we had taken our relationship to a new level," Damien quipped in order to mask his rising apprehension.

The Hunter shot him a withering glare. "Do you think you could keep your mouth shut long enough to hear me out," he snapped irritably, "or shall we discuss your salutation preferences first?"

"Be my guest and go on. I'm all ears."

"It is to be hoped. I'd very much appreciate if I hadn't to repeat myself." Tarrant drew a deep breath as if steeling himself for the metaphorical jump over the cliff. "You have to understand that talking about my emotions isn't one of my favourite pastimes. Until recently, I wouldn't have thought that any of them had survived the night I killed my wife and children," he said with a small, self-deprecating laugh. "But you proved me wrong. Rekindled something I deemed long gone and buried along them. Don't make me put a name on it yet. But never ever consider yourself a mere 'handy tool' again. You aren't. Not anymore. Does this answer your question to your satisfaction?"

The priest smiled. "It does. In fact, it's more than I could have ever hoped for. But after we settled this, I have to admit that I'm freezing my bum off. Shall we go home now, not that our wretched lodgings deserve the name, or do you have other plans for the reminder of the night?"

"Indeed, Vryce. But you needn't worry about the cold. I've got my own ways and means to keep you warm." As his lover rolled atop him again, the lusty glint in his eyes leaving no doubts about the kind of physical exertion he was having in mind, Damien instantly forgot all about his goose flesh. In a few hours, he would have to face the harsh realities of life in form of whatever plan the mastermind at his side had hatched. With regard to the adept's ominous hints, it certainly wouldn't be pleasant. But this night belonged to them alone. At the very next moment, Gerald took him inside him again and started to roll his hips, and he stopped thinking altogether.


End file.
